


A Clown Thing

by Styfas



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Pre-Canon, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25371979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Styfas/pseuds/Styfas
Summary: How did Arthur get the job at Ha-Ha's, anyway?
Kudos: 15





	A Clown Thing

**Author's Note:**

> This scenario is told in an alternating 3rd person point-of-view format, yet in consecutive order. In other words, in a continuum as follows: 
> 
> Part 1 is Arthur, then the scene *continues* to part 2, Hoyt, then *continues* to part 3: Arthur, then *continues* to part 4, Hoyt, and continues - to the finish of the fic, with Arthur.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own DC nor Warner Brothers, nor these characters, nor the actors who played these characters, and I'm not making money from this.
> 
> This is fiction, and that's a fact.

Arthur Fleck paces back and forth along three blocks of Amusement Mile, trying to build up the confidence to open the door to Ha-Ha’s and ascend the steps to what he hopes will be his next job. He smokes a cigarette, then another, and another. And still one more. Glancing at his watch, he sees that he’s spent a good half hour at this. In that amount of time he could have been able to count all the cracks in the sidewalk, how many green cars are parked on the street, and how many pigeons have crossed his path.

He also knows he has no chance of getting the job if he doesn’t open the door, so finally he does. 

He counts the steps as he walks up: sixteen steps to the first landing, and another sixteen steps to get up to the main hallway. Thirty-two steps; not difficult at all. It’s nowhere near the one-hundred-and-thirty-two steps that he has to climb on his way home from his appointments at the Department of Health. It would be wonderful to climb these thirty-two steps every day, just to come to a place where he could be with people his own age, and people he could talk to. People who might actually _listen_ to him when he had something to say. 

Arthur enters what looks to be a makeup and lounge area. Some guys are seated at a table, eating donuts and drinking coffee. Others are seated at makeup tables, busily applying their clown faces. He likes the atmosphere, the hustle-bustle of it all. Working here would be fun, he thinks.

“Excuse me,” he says in a voice that fails to command attention. He tries again, a little louder, “Excuse me?”

A little person – is he a midget, or a dwarf, Arthur wonders – looks up from a bench by a bank of lockers and flashes the friendliest smile Arthur has seen in months. “Hello, what can I do for you?” he asks.

“I, uh… I have an interview with the manager here.”

“Oh, you mean Hoyt.”

“Yeah. Hoyt. That’s his name.” Arthur didn’t know what the name was before the little person told him, but he‘s glad to know it. He doesn’t tell him that Hoyt isn’t expecting him. “Which way do I go to meet him?”

“Down that hallway, then make a left, and then another left, and you’ll see his office at end of that hallway. If I know Hoyt, his door will be closed. Just knock. Hard. Good luck to you!”

Arthur doesn’t know if he’s being wished good luck for his interview, or good luck for meeting a man who purposely leaves his door closed, or – what, exactly…

He plods slowly down the hallways, taking deep breaths, pleased that he somehow manages to keep moving forward, when all he could do on the street was to wander back and forth indecisively. He reaches the end of the hallway, and yes, the door is closed. There is no name on the door, simply the word: **OFFICE**. Now he’s doubly grateful that the only person who had bothered to talk to him so far told him the name of the person on the other side of that door. What Arthur hasn’t yet decided is whether he should address Hoyt by name immediately. He’s leaning towards No, though. Don’t speak until you’re spoken to, and wait until Hoyt introduces himself.

Arthur knocks on the door. Hard, he remembers. 

“Yeah, what is it?” comes a nasal tenor voice from the other side of the door.

“Can I come in, please?”

“ _Who?_ Can _who_ come in?”

Hoyt sounds annoyed, so Arthur speaks in his most polite tone. “My name is Arthur Fleck. I saw the ad in the paper, and I’m looking for a job. Can I come in?”

“Door’s open.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hoyt sets his pencil down on his desk and watches his office door creak slowly open. The man who enters is of medium height, and it’s scary how skinny he is. If somebody were to accidentally brush against him, he would likely topple to the floor. He has sad eyes, like one of those big-eyed alley cats in prints they used to sell in the backs of magazines. His dark hair is unkempt, greasy, and looks like it hasn’t been washed in at least a week. He closes the door and shuffles to Hoyt’s desk, hands shoved in his pants pockets. 

“You’re looking for custodial work, right?” Hoyt asks.

The man’s eyes grow even sadder. “No,” he says.

Hoyt is almost sorry that he hurt the guy’s feelings, but he needs to move things along. He has work to do. “My mistake,” he says. “Tell me why you’re here, then.”

“You’re looking for clowns.”

“Yeah, do you know any?”

Arthur looks like he’s about to cry. “That’s why I’m here. I saw the ad in the paper that said you’re looking for clowns, and so I wanted to come see you. I’d like to be a clown.”

Hoyt’s first impulse is to ask, _And what makes you think you can do that?_ Instead, he goes for the more professional, ”What experience do you have?”

“Well… I… I can make people laugh,” Arthur says.

“And how do you do that?”

“Just by laughing. My mother calls me Happy. It’s like a nickname.”

Well, isn’t that fucking lovely. But it doesn’t tell Hoyt much, really. “Okay, so laugh for me.”

“It’s kind of hard to do on command,” Arthur replies. “But I’m pursuing a career in standup comedy,” he says, eyes brightening. “Would you like to hear a joke?”

Might as well, Hoyt thinks. He shrugs. “Go ahead.” 

“Okay, here’s one: Why are poor people always confused?”

“I don’t know,” Hoyt says with annoyed obligation. He waits for a lousy punchline. Coming from this guy, it has to be lousy.

“Because they don’t make any cents.” Arthur snickers. “Get it? Sense? _Cents_?” He adds a nervous laugh that does nothing to cut the tension in the room.

“Yeah, I get it,” Hoyt drones. Puns; the lowest form of comedy. Fortunately, to be a clown, it isn’t necessary to tell jokes, and that’s one thing Hoyt definitely wouldn’t be sending Arthur out to do, anyway. In fact, if he should by some chance hire this scrawny guy, he’ll insist that he _doesn’t_ tell jokes.

What to do…

With those sad eyes of his, Arthur could be a sad-faced clown, like Emmet Kelly Jr. But people don’t call Ha-Ha’s to book sad clowns. Hoyt considers further, taking in his full appearance from head to toe. There’s something about Arthur’s general demeanor that strikes him as being similar to Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp character. It’s probably the ill-fitting clothes; loose pants, a shirt with sleeves too long, and a too-tight jacket. Pitiful, really. 

He’s a tough one, this Arthur. But Hoyt has to be a realist. He’s down four clowns on his roster, and money is tight. He has to pay the business’ building rent and his own apartment rent. It doesn’t help that he just got engaged a couple of months ago, and that he’s on a payment plan for the rock he got for his fiancée. Hell of a time for four clowns to leave Ha-Ha’s for the competition on the other side of town. 

Considering his financial circumstances, he might be able to find some way to use Arthur for the short term, at least. Then, If he doesn’t work out, fire him. Simple. Arthur is awkward and scruffy, but he seems harmless enough, and he obviously wants to please. Good, Hoyt thinks, because he is so over clowns with egos. Like Randall, for instance. If he wasn’t such a good clown, Hoyt would’ve shown him the door years ago.

Now, if he could only figure out how to use Arthur at Ha-Ha’s…

“Can you spin a sign?” Hoyt asks.

“I could learn.” 

Hoyt’s okay with that answer because it helps him to know that Arthur isn’t a liar. Hoyt is liking him more and more. Sure, he could learn to spin a sign. How hard could it be, anyway? It has to be easier than making balloon animals, juggling, or riding a unicycle. 

“Can you sing? Dance?”

“You mean right now? Um… Okay.” Arthur starts right in with _If you’re happy and you know it_ , and somehow makes it through the entire song without falling apart. He even does a little high-stepping dance, complete with turns, stomps, waving of hands, and a _Ta-da!_ gesture when he’s finished. Funny that he can sing and dance like that on command – but the not-being-able-to-laugh-on-command thing seems just plain weird. Hoyt can’t figure it out.

He leans back in his chair, folds his arms across his chest, and eyes Arthur up and down again. He’s looking at a man who has just sung and danced with chest puffed out and head held high, but who has now just as quickly become a study in concave angles. Arthur’s shoulders are drawn forward, his chest caved in, his chin slightly dropped. His straight arms are crossed in front of him, wrists crossed, and hands clasped as if to form a fig leaf over his crotch. He’s a sight, to be sure.

But Hoyt sees something in the guy, weird as he is. There’s a kind of naivete about him, a child-like quality that makes Hoyt think that he’d be good with kids. He hasn’t been able to send a clown over to the Children’s Hospital in months because nobody at Ha-Ha’s seemed to be the right fit for that type of gig. Randall? No way; he's big, boisterous, and obnoxious, and that's his particular niche. Gary? Iffy. Sweet guy, but the simple fact is that Gary can’t move well. The other clowns already have full schedules, so no use taking them away from other, more lucrative gigs to go the Children’s Hospital. But this Arthur character is actually a passable dancer, Hoyt thinks. He’s no Fred Astaire, but then, you don’t have to be to dance for kids. And his soft, airy singing voice won’t scare them.

Oh, what the Hell. Ha-Ha’s needs clowns – and Hoyt hasn’t had anyone else come in to ask about a job in weeks. Arthur is ready, willing, and… somewhat able. He’ll do for now, until he can get someone better.

“You’re hired,” Hoyt says.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you need me to spell it out for you? I said you’re hired. What more do you need?” And finally, Hoyt sees a real smile on the guy’s face. 

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” 

“Do you have shoes? A costume? Makeup?”

Arthur’s face drops.

“That’s okay,” Hoyt says. We’ll get you started with clothes. We can probably find some in the back room for you until you get your own. But you gotta get your own makeup kit, brushes, and sponges, ASAP. We like to keep things sanitary around here.” _Maybe you ought to_ s _tart out with a shower and shampoo,_ Hoyt thinks – but he doesn’t say it.

“I’ll get all that stuff,” Arthur says. “Thank you.”

“And buy a red nose while you’re at it. Go ahead and choose a locker, and we’ll put your name on it later. Come in at nine o-clock tomorrow, and we’ll get you squared way, sign forms, get all that bullshit taken care of for Uncle Sam. If you’re lucky, I might even have a gig for you tomorrow.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. He opens his mouth to speak, and then closes his mouth again.

“Well?”

“Uh… I don’t know your name yet.”

“Hoyt. Call me Hoyt. See you tomorrow.”

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

Arthur is glad to have Hoyt’s permission to call him by name, because that’s what he’s about to do. He bites the side of his tongue until it hurts, bringing saliva, and then, “Excuse me… Hoyt?” The sound he makes is more air than voice.

“What’s your problem?” Hoyt asks. “I don’t have all day. Go buy your supplies, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Now get outta here, before I change my mind.”

Arthur has a dilemma: If he withholds information, then that’s just like lying, isn’t it? And he doesn’t want to lie. But he’s afraid that what he’s about to tell Hoyt could make him change his mind about hiring him, and then he’ll be the same unemployed person he was before he walked up those steps to meet him.

He wipes sweaty palms on his trousers, then smooths back his hair. His wavy bangs promptly fall back forward and down his forehead. Damn, if only he could afford a haircut. “There’s something I should probably tell you,” he says. “Or… uh… it’s something I show you. Because I don’t want to be a liar.” 

Arthur reaches into his pocket, pulls out a laminated white card with black letters, and hands it to Hoyt.

He’s been handing these cards out to strangers on the street, strangers on busses and trains and in stores, and to employers, for as long as he can remember. He has learned the words by heart, and so he hears them in his mind as he sees Hoyt reading them:

**_Forgive my Laughter,_ **

**_I have a Condition_ **

**MORE ON BACK**

He watches Hoyt flip the card over; this card which he has committed to memory, and for which he could have just as easily recited the words out loud. Instead, he follows along in his mind as watches Hoyt scan the lines of print:

**_It’s a medical condition causing sudden,_ **

**_frequent and uncontrollable laughter that_ **

**_doesn’t match how you feel._ **

**_It can happen in people with a brain_ **

**_injury or certain neurological conditions_ **

**_Thank You!_ **

**KINDLY RETURN THIS CARD**

Arthur ventures, “Uh... but you don’t really need to return the card. Keep it. I have more… if you think you might need more?” 

He wants to bang his head against the wall for making his words sound like a question. He should have just made a simple statement ending in a confident period. But he didn’t, and now he thinks his chances are good of that he’ll be sent right back out the door and onto the street again without a job. He holds his breath and waits for the worst. He sees Hoyt, head still lowered from having read the card, peering up at him from underneath a multi-creased brow. But why isn’t he saying anything? And how long will it be before he does finally say something?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

The not-able-to-laugh-on-command thing begins to make sense to Hoyt.

Arthur did say he could make people laugh – and Hoyt realizes that it must be because of this condition of his. He laughs, and people laugh at him. It could be that Arthur doesn’t know what real laughter is. All Hoyt has heard so far is nervous chuckles and snickers. 

He raises his head, looks directly at Arthur, and takes a moment to think it through. Brain injury? He doesn’t want to ask. Neurological condition? Again, he doesn’t want to ask – and he really doesn’t want to know, anyway. Arthur made it through an interview without breaking down, so that’s something. He was obviously nervous when he came in – and he still is – but at least he hasn’t started the frequent-and-uncontrollable-laughing thing. Hoyt wonders if Arthur has ever let this condition of his take over in a work situation. He won’t ask, but he guesses Yes. But if Arthur starts laughing at a gig, so what? It’ll be okay because he’s a _clown_. 

“Hoyt?” Arthur looks like a kid who got caught taking a cookie from the cookie jar.

“Yeah, what?”

“I won’t come in tomorrow if you don’t want me to.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Hoyt says the words as much for himself as for Arthur. 

“Are you sure?”

“Go meet some of the guys before you leave. See you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Hoyt! Thank you!”

Funny, this guy who just danced reasonably well is now acting like he needs choreography just to get out the door. He’s alternately backing up and moving sideways, his eyes on Hoyt the entire time, and still saying thank you, over and over again. He’s not really going to do it, is he? He can’t be. He’s not going to… he’s _not_ …

…and when Arthur finally turns to leave, he promptly walks smack into the closed door. 

Arthur looks stunned for a second, and then he chuckles. “That was… a clown thing,” he says, turning to Hoyt. “Part of my act.” He fumbles for the doorknob, and finally manages to leave the room and close the door behind him. 

Hoyt rests his elbows on this desk and leans forward, bringing his open hands up against his forehead.

He slowly shakes his head. That was no “clown thing.” That was… Arthur. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Arthur is glad that he was able to think fast after he crashed into the office door by mistake. He covered up his clumsiness well by saying that it was a clown thing, and he’s sure that Hoyt believed him. Arthur knows he’s clever. He proves it to himself over and over again, every time he writes a new joke down in his joke book. And he knows he’s smart. It’s everybody else’s fault if they can’t realize it.

With a spring in his step, he takes the three hallways back to the work area. 

The little man, now seated on an orange corner couch, greets him once again. “How did it go?”

“I start tomorrow. I’m going to be a clown!”

“Congratulations!” The diminutive man slides down off the couch and approaches Arthur. He extends his hand. “I’m Gary.”

“Hi, Gary.” He leans down to give him a handshake. ”My name’s Arthur.”

“Welcome aboard, Arthur! Let me show you around. Not much to see, though.” Gary takes Arthur through the hallways to show him the locations of the restroom, vending machine, and coffee maker. Coming back to the work area, he shows him the time clock, lockers, makeup tables, and the large table where the other clowns kill time by drinking, eating, smoking, reading, and playing cards, among other activities. 

“Hi, guys,” Arthur says, waving to the guys at the table. “I’m going to start working here tomorrow!” They all offer perfunctory hellos, then turn their backs to go back to whatever they were doing before Arthur interrupted them. They don’t bother to introduce themselves, nor do they ask anything about him. 

Gary leads Arthur to the end of the row of lockers, by the window. “Have a seat,” he says. They sit together on the bench. 

Gary whispers, ”Don’t let them bother you.”

“I wasn’t bothered,” Arthur whispers back. “They’re just busy, I know that.” 

“They’ll warm up to you in time,” Gary says. “A word of caution, though. If they ever make fun of you, ignore them. That’s what I do.”

Arthur wonders why Gary would imply that the guys might make fun of him. They don’t even know him yet. So he considers the source: Gary. A sweet, friendly guy; that’s who Arthur sees. But he knows that people can be rude, and that most would see a very short man with misshapen hands and ears, and with a stiff, waddling gait. Someone that doesn’t look or move like them. Someone they think they have to make fun of, just so they can make themselves feel like they’re better than him. Right now, as far as Arthur is concerned, Gary is better than all of them. He would like it if they became friends, and he thinks they’re already well on the way to doing that.

He quietly admits to Gary that he’s never actually been a clown. He can sing and dance, and tell jokes, but this will be new for him. He asks where he can get clown makeup, brushes, and sponges. A clown nose, too. Gary grabs paper and pencil from across the room, writes down the address of a theatrical supply store, and hands it to Arthur.

“I guess I’ll be on my way. I need to pick up all this stuff before tomorrow. Bye, Gary.” He shakes hands with him again, gets up from the bench and heads for the exit stairs. “Bye, guys!”

No one acknowledges him. But Arthur’s so happy right now, he doesn’t care. He knows he’ll have another chance to meet everyone tomorrow. After he leaves the work area he does a happy soft-shoe dance down the hallway to the exit stairs.

As he dances down the steps, he notices a sign above him at the first landing:

**Don’t Forget To**

**_Smile!_ **

****

He doesn’t need that sign to remind him to smile, because he had already been smiling all the way through the hallways and down the first flight of stairs. He keeps smiling and dancing down the steps and out of the building.

After months of looking, he finally has a job, and he can’t wait to tell his mother. Those one-hundred-and-thirty-two steps to get home are going to be much easier to climb tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> UGH - For over a half hour I tried to get SMILE! to be in a larger font. I tried different skins, different combinations of html - and the only thing I could succeed it doing was to make it large, BUT it would not go centered!
> 
> I tried different work skins etc...
> 
> I finally gave up. 
> 
> And reverted back to just copy/pasting the whole thing from Microsoft Word again. 
> 
> But If _anyone_ here can help out with it, please let me know!  
>    
> _There must be a way, but I've yet to figure it out!_
> 
> ~~And it bothers me.~~


End file.
